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“Not even trying to be smooth,” Danny states, clearly having heard him, as I’m sure they all did.
When I walk into the house, Popa B and Gram are sitting at the table, sipping hot lavender tea, and a third cup is waiting for me.
I hang my bag over the back of the chair and sit down as Gram asks, “Are you all right, Whitley?”
“I will be,” I answer, picking up the cup and inhaling the calming scent and heat.
“I’m not one for violence.” Popa B starts what I know is going to be a sermon, but then his deep laugh fills the room. “But I’ve always enjoyed comedy. I couldn’t help but stand in the shadows and watch John Paul give that Seward ample time to stop acting a fool ”—he chuckles—“and then subduing him face down in the mud when he just wouldn’t comply.”
I take a sip of tea and set the cup down.
Gram puts her hand over mine. “Popa B told me you called off the engagement.”
I nod, confirming.
“I know that’s gotta sting a bit, but I also know it’s what’s best for you and Nora.”
“I sure hope so, Gram.”
Fifteen minutes later, showered and lying in bed, I pull the long-sleeved tee up to my nose and inhale Pope’s scent. A scent I spent the month after he left for the minors trying to decipher and then imitate. The primary note was the scent of wood, mixed with leather. That night we spent together in the back of his truck, I remember a light musk scent as well. The notes are all the same, but bolder.
Just like him.
I want nothing more than to trust that everything will be okay—I truly do—but it’s so hard when I can’t even forgive myself for the choices I made yet.
That’s not on Pope. That’s on me.
9
Friday
Yesterday, I avoided all calls from Kevin Seward, —Kals father— and fought my instinct to go sit outside the Med Center in the shadows to make sure Whit made it out and to her car without incident. Marks is on patrol tonight, just like he was last night, and promised he’d make up an excuse to be there when she got out.
Today, the crew showed up to wait for the concrete truck to arrive and pour the floor. Then they’ll start in on the walls.
Me, I head out for a run. After running through the cemetery and saying my good morning to my parents, I head back out onto the road, and run harder.
Midway through, I get a text and hit my watch app.
I slow to a walk to read what unknown has to say.
Unknown:
I hoped that we would have a conversation, but it seems that isn’t going to happen. I’ve contacted Officer York, and she’s aware that my son will not be pressing charges if none are pressed against him. We’d like to put this behind us and move forward. I have always respected your mother and you as an athlete. I hope that you can give me the same. Regards, KS
Kevin Seward.
The respect for my mother he’s referring to came in the form of having breakfast at Nan’s three mornings a week and leaving large tips. It spilled over to talking with her after and sometimes during ball games and him praising my game. I liked that praise at first, especially when I saw how pissed off it made his son, who I didn’t care for—and clearly still don’t. When he continued showing up at games after his son graduated, it became apparent that it had nothing to do with me; it was Mom. That suspicion was confirmed when he showed up at our home one night with flowers, and I heard my mother tell him that she had told him several times she wasn’t interested in anything more than a friendship. He asked her how the team would manage without his donations and how she would manage without the tips he left.
Ever the respectful Southern woman, she responded, “I thank you for your generosity and concern, but I’ll manage just fine. Now, you have a wonderful night, ya hear?”
As she stepped into the house, I hid back around the corner and heard her whisper, “What an incredulous asshole.”
She walked into the living room and saw me lurking.
Before she could say anything, I told her, “I don’t think Dad would want you to be alone forever.”
She smiled softly. “John Paul, I could never date a man who wasn’t even half the man your father was, and I’ve yet to meet one, not that I’ve been looking but women know these things. That man? He’s not even close to that, and even if he were, he’s a married man, and I will never be somebody’s mistress.” And then she ended that with, “Bless his heart.”
